#ripping off the face of your captor and abuser? iconic

[ladicsa]

i’ve been comfort watching season two and this iconic scene will always live in my brain tent free

[leighsartworks216]

The Viper (Part 7)

Jaskier x gn!reader

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve

Ngl I'm not very happy with this chapter but I just want to move on to the next one so I'm done with it lol

Warnings: nightmares, fighting, blood, injuries, lowkey torture, swearing (not as much as there should be tbh), angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 3625

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One minute, you were riding atop Bayard, listening to Jaskier compose his next masterpiece. Carefully plucked chords filled the air, oftentimes repeating themselves over and over again as he muttered lyrics to himself. The song sounded sad to your untrained ears. The next, a crossbow bolt was imbedding itself in your shoulder and you were on the ground, surrounded by bandits. Bayard whined and whinnied at his fallen rider, and Jaskier frantically tried placating the situation.

Your anger was boiling in your soul, bubbling like a pot of stew over a fire. You watched with gritted teeth - from pain and rage - as they clasped you and Jaskier in stolen handcuffs and forced you to your knees around the fire. Jaskier was a rambling mess, trying to talk you both out of the situation and begging for them not to mess with his lute or your horse. You were silent. Blood dripped down your arm, leaving a warm, sticky trail in its wake.

It was your fault you were in this mess. You were so tired lately. So fucking tired. Bayard’s gentle rocking had put you at ease like a babe in a cradle. You let your guard down. You let Jaskier down; let him get pulled into whatever your captors had planned. The guilt ate away at you almost as much as the anger.

One of the bandits - the leader, if his attire and attitude were anything to go by - knelt down in front of you, studying the yellow eyes that glared back at him. “I know just who you are.” His voice was a gravely hiss. All birds seemed to go silent when he spoke. “You’re Nilfgaard’s prized Viper.”

He raised a gloved hand and grabbed your medallion. The metal turned over in his hand once, twice. Then, a sharp pain at the back of your neck as your school’s icon was ripped off, the sudden motion dragging your body forward with it. His other hand caught you, however, gripping at your throat. Not tight, but a clear, silent threat, as he leaned in with a repulsive grin.

“I wonder if Nilfgaard’s whore has fangs.”

“Leave them alone!” Despite trying to sound tough, Jaskier’s shout only came out weak and whiny.

The leader’s face didn’t move. It stayed sickeningly close to yours, and only his eyes shifted to look at the bard on his knees right next to you. “And who’s this?” he asked. It was clearly directed at you. “You also get yourself a pet?” His lips curled around yellow and brown teeth. “A boy toy?”

“Touch him and I will cut off your fingers and shove them so far up your arse, you’ll have to chew with your fingernails,” you hissed. Jaskier had only seen your eyes burn with that fire once before, up on the mountains of Caingorn.

“Hm.” The gloved hand moved your head, as if to appraise you from different angles. “All that venom for what? A bard?” When you said nothing, he backed away. His hand released your throat with a shove as he stood.

Dirt scraped beneath his feet as he walked a few paces to stand in front of Jaskier. “You, sing us a song.”

He floundered for a moment, his mind racing to find a tune. “Toss a coin to your-” You fought to stand and kill the leader, wishing to make good on your threat. Hands grabbed your shoulders and forced you back down, even gripping your hair, keeping you steady to watch the abuse they would put him through. Jaskier coughed, hunched over as he recovered from the hard kick he got to his stomach.

“Not that fucking tripe.”

You were powerless to watch as Jaskier sat up straight again with a shaky, gasping breath. He was too young for this.

“Sing us a real song.”

With little to go on, he thought of another song - any other song - in his repertoire. He would sing a small snippet of one, and then be kicked or punched or slapped, and told the same request as before. He was whimpering, begging for any other “hints” to go off of. The bandits gave him nothing. They just laughed at his plight. When blood dribbled out of his nose, you saw red.

You fought against the bandits holding you. Bolt in your shoulder be damned, you were fighting them with everything you had.

A burst of fire ignited from your hands in a conical radius, burning the bandits holding you. As soon as you were let go, you redirected that fire to your shackles, hands burning with the power of the Witcher sign. The white-hot chain broke.

The men came at you with swords and axes. All you had to fight with were your signs (which were especially draining with your lack of sleep; already you were feeling the effects of the Igni blast), your mutated strength, and the adrenaline keeping you on your feet.

You fought and ducked your way across the camp on fists and dropped weapons alone until you could reclaim your daggers. The fight went much faster after that. Still, it was chaotic and messy. You took more blows than you should have. Your shoulder was a target for everyone, and halfway through the fight you could no longer use it. The pain was too overwhelming.

Men lay sprawled across the camp, covered in their own blood, their comrades’ and your own. Only one remained.

The leader, still clutching your medallion in a tight fist, crawled away from the light of the fire. His fingers dug into dirt, desperately dragging him across the cold forest floor. He cried out as a boot landed on his leg, right atop the injury he sustained fighting against you alongside his men.

You released him, only to kick him in the stomach and shove him onto his back.

“Mercy! Mercy!” he pleaded. His face was contorted with agony and fear, covered in blood and dirt. He couldn’t even look at you through eyes full of tears.

You kneeled beside him. Your arm hung limp at your side, knuckles brushing against dirt and pine needles. The other rested on your knee, loosely holding your dagger.

Your eyes, warm in color but cold in emotion, scanned over him. They held no remorse for the man. They focused on his face again.

“You hurt my bard,” you reminded him. He whimpered. His hands clasped together as if praying to Melitele. “I have no mercy to give.” Your dagger raised and fell, and the camp was silent. The only sound was your unsteady breathing and the rapid heartbeat of Jaskier, hiding behind a tree for protection.

Protection from you, your mind helpfully added.

Your fingers let go of the handle, blade sheathed firmly in the man’s throat. Blood oozed out around the metal. You pried your medallion from the man’s still warm fingers - the shiny metal was stained with blood. You could not tell whose it was. You tucked it away as safely as you could and searched his pockets. The jingling sound of keys filled the air as you dug them out. You didn’t unlock yourself.

Instead, you stumbled over to Jaskier. You couldn’t tell what he was feeling. Usually, his emotions were written all over his face. You couldn’t be sure if your guilt for allowing him to get hurt was affecting how you perceived them. As far as you were certain, he was uncomfortable from the amount of carnage he found himself in.

You freed him as quickly as you could with one hand, glaring at the red marks on his wrists from the cuffs. “Are you alright?”

He nodded.

“C’mon.” You helped him to his feet even as you leaned against the tree for support. “The next town isn’t too far.”

“Wh-What about…?” He glanced over at the bodies and the dying fire. You steered him away from the scene and toward Bayard, who was tied to a tree a little ways away. For the most part, they left your speckled steed alone. All they did was take your saddlebags, intending to keep the goods for themselves. You helped him up before yourself, even as you strained and bit your cheek to hide your pain.

“I’ll come back for it later.”

Neither of you said anything more as you urged Bayard to move, guiding him to follow the path you had been on before. Jaskier seemed hesitant to hold onto you, as you were covered in blood and open wounds. He moved past his fears as you began to lean back into him; one arm wrapped securely around your waist as the other carefully took hold of the reins. Your body fell heavier and heavier against his chest as time slowly passed until he supported all of your weight. He kept you upright and steady on Bayard’s back, leading the horse where he needed to. When he had a chance to glance at your face, covered in grime and gore, your eyes were closed.

-

Your dreamless sleep was interrupted by a sharp pain in your shoulder. Your nerves were on fire, burning down your arm and up your neck. There was a dull ache in your sides and legs, but nothing as red-hot as this.

“Don’ try ta move, dearie.”

Everything was blurry. This voice wasn’t familiar. It wasn’t Jaskiers. It wasn’t comforting. Your head drifted from one side to the other, eyes blinking to try to disperse the haze within them, to see who spoke. But the results were lacking.

“Stay still.”

This voice was familiar. It was like a sweet nothing being whispered to a spring breeze, like a lullaby cooed to children. This was Jaskier. You fought harder to find him, to see him through the mist.

“Shh.” Had you been speaking? A warm hand brushed hair from your forehead. A figure formed itself in your eyes. “Relax, Y/N. It’s alright.”

Y/N… That was… Right. That was your name. The last time you heard it was…

Another sharp pain burst from your shoulder. All you could do was whimper. A hand gripped yours. It was soft and warm.

“It’s alright, dear. It’ll stop hurtin’ soon. Jus’ go ta sleep.” That unfamiliar voice again. A healer?

Jaskier’s voice floated into your senses once more. You couldn’t put together what he was saying. You could see his blue eyes. Your fingers curled around his as your eyes fluttered shut.

-

Beams of light streaked across your face, blinding you as you tried opening your eyes. Everything felt sore. Muscles screamed as you forced yourself to sit up, stitches pulling at torn skin in your sides and arms. Your bones felt like lead, heavy and pulled by a powerful gravity to the bed you laid in.

Your feet landed with thuds on the wood floor. It was cold. Goosebumps ran up your legs and arms at the temperature shock. You weren’t wearing your usual attire - leather armor and dark undershirt replaced with a loose white tunic. The front was untied, letting in more cold air that brushed uncomfortably against your exposed wounds. The blankets were still warm. You tried to reach back and wrap them around yourself. A sharp pain jolted up your shoulder. You forced your arm to rest in your lap, grasped onto the affliction, and willed it to pass.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Footfalls crossed the room from the door to reach you. The bed shifted under the weight of the newcomer, who did his best to carefully remove your hand from your shoulder. Nimble fingers pulled back the soft fabric of the tunic and revealed the angry wound it hid. He sighed at the sight of the bled-through bandages.

“I had to get a healer for this,” Jaskier hummed. There was a playful undertone to his voice, as if he was scolding you for getting hurt in a way he couldn’t help. Cuts and scrapes he could handle. But a bolt through an arm? Well… “At least it didn’t go through bone.”

He began busying himself with gathering supplies from around the room. A cup of water was placed in your hands as he sat back down with bandages, a bowl of water, and a cloth in hand. “How do you feel?”

Soft hands with calloused fingertips began tenderly peeling away the dirty bandages, revealing the black-and-blue shoulder underneath. The hole where the crossbow bolt had punched through was sewn up, but blood continued to seep between the stitches.

“Numb,” you decided after a moment. You still didn’t feel quite awake or aware. You remembered getting on top of Bayard after the fight and then… “Where are we?”

You looked around where you could. The room you were in seemed scarce, containing mostly bare essentials - the bed beneath you, a chair tucked away in the corner, and a window that continued to let in too much light. You couldn’t see what was behind you.

Jaskier dipped the cloth into the clean water of the bowl and began gently dabbing away the blood on your skin. His face was leaned in quite close; he was intently focused on the job at hand. At first he only hummed to your question. Once he pulled away from your wound, however, it seemed to register. “We’re in Tridam. You passed out on the ride, so, well, I followed the road to the next town.” He wet the cloth again and went back to cleaning the stitches. “I snagged us a room at the inn here - paid a little smidge extra for a bath since,” he gestured vaguely, but you recalled all the blood and grime that covered you before. You remembered the blood that trailed down his face, too.

“You bathed me?”

Jaskier floundered immediately. Words spilled out before they were fully formed sentences, trying to keep some of his honor. He visibly relaxed when he saw the little smirk on your face. He huffed indignantly. “I had a maid help. Besides, you were dirtying the sheets.”

You looked down at the cup in your hand. You were thirsty, but the thought of moving at all felt like an impossible task. Sitting up had been challenging enough as it was. Even as you held the cup, you could feel your fingers loosening their hold. Jaskier must have noticed when it began to tip precariously, as he grabbed it and set it to the side.

Something else was missing as you looked down. It took a while to register. You stared at the sight of your bare chest, exposed in the loose shirt, wondering why it felt so wrong to be this bare. Then you realized it was not the lack of clothing.

Your golden eyes, still glossy with a haze of exhaustion and lethargy, looked to the bard for answers. “My medallion. Where…?”

“Oh!” This time, he pulled away from cleaning your wound immediately. He dug through his pocket, muttering to himself, before revealing your School’s icon, safe and sound. And free of blood. “I didn’t want you to drop it while we were riding. And, well, the chain is broken, so, I thought the safest place for it to be would be with me - until we can get it fixed, that is.” He placed the metal symbol in your hand, closing your fingers over it and making sure you wouldn’t drop it.

“And!” He pointed over to the door, where your saddlebags and sheaths lay, neat and ready to be taken on another adventure. “I went back and got your daggers for you. I, uh, took them to the blacksmith to be cleaned. Hope you don’t mind.”

Your eyes widened, staring at Jaskier as if he had just sprouted a second head. “You didn’t have to do that,” you chided. “I said I would.”

He shrugged, not quite understanding why you protested, it seemed. “It’s no big deal,” he dismissed, rinsing the cloth in the bowl. “It was only a couple crowns to clean them, really-”

“Jaskier.”

Blue eyes shot up from his task. Your brow was furrowed, a frown staining your face. Yellow eyes, however, did not hold disappointment for his actions, nor his misunderstanding. They held concern.

“One of them was in his throat.” It was a near whisper, like you couldn’t believe it either. “You shouldn’t have seen any of that- experienced any of that. They hurt you and-”

“They hurt you, too.” His eyebrows raised slightly, as if asking you to challenge him.

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“You’re a bard, Jaskier. I’m a fighter, an assassin. I should have stepped in before they even had a chance to- before they even jumped us!”

“Viper.” Despite the stern tone in his voice, his hand grabbed your arm gently. “I’m okay. I’m a little sore, but I would be a lot worse off if you didn’t do anything. You saved me. That has to be worth something.”

It was quiet. A flame of guilt subsisted within you. “But I shouldn’t have had to,” you continued to argue. “If I could just stop having these stupid nightmares, then I wouldn’t be so tired. And I wouldn’t have been caught off guard and you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Before you could continue rambling, Jaskier squeezed your arm and tilted his head to catch your eyes. “You still haven’t been sleeping?”

You sighed. “They just keep getting worse.”

Jaskier wrapped up your shoulder. Once he finished, he covered it back up with the shirt. No matter what his reputation was, he did not look at anything you would not want him to see. He stood once more to put the bowl and cloth away, somewhere behind you. You didn’t bother to look. When he came back, he grabbed your cup of water once again, and helped you hold it so he could help you drink. You saved him from hours, days, possibly weeks of torture at the hands of those bandits. He wanted to repay you, even if you didn’t think you deserved it.

“What are they about?” How many times had he asked? He would’ve asked more if he was aware you were still having the nightmares, if you had not elected to keep that little detail a secret from him. “Whatever is troubling you, continuing to carry the burden alone isn’t going to help. Viper, let me help.”

Your bright eyes studied him, searching his face for answers he didn’t know the question to. You swallowed. He helped you raise your cup to your lips and drink some water. It cooled the remaining doubts that lingered in you.

“I keep… You have to understand that our schools, they- They take us when we’re little kids. Some of them paid off our parents or found us in orphanages, but we were all just little kids.” You sighed. Jaskier could see the heavy emotions that weighed in your eyes, in your body language. He had no idea what he just got himself into.

“When we first got to Gorthur Gvaed, the Viper Keep, they put us in a cellar under a trap door. And in my dreams, I keep going back there.” You let out a shaky breath as you pictured exactly what you saw every night when you deigned to rest. “There’s screaming. In the distance. Most of us don’t- didn’t survive the Trials, the, um, processes we go through to become Witchers. And I’m in the cellar, with a bunch of kids, listening to the screams. We all know that’s going to happen to us. And none of us know if we’ll survive.

“The screaming stops and we just… know. A little boy, maybe, like, six, comes to sit next to me. His eyes were brown, I know they were. But in my dream, they’re blue. A-And he talks with me. He asks for my name, and he tells me his, but I can’t understand it. It’s all garbled and echoey. I can’t make it out. Someone opens up the trapdoor to the cellar and grabs one of the other kids, and we just have to watch as they’re dragged away. And-And he holds my hand and we huddle up together and it’s so cold.

“But when I wake up, he won’t move.”

Jaskier is afraid to touch you. He’s scared that holding your hand would send you into further hysterics. Already your breaths were staggered and unsteady, and your eyes were becoming glassy. Still, he feels like he needs to do something. So he rubs your back and encourages you to take another drink. It slows you down for a moment.

“He died from hypothermia,” you murmur when the cup is pulled from your lips. It’s almost emotionless compared to how you spoke just seconds ago, as if you had practiced this line to yourself for years. “Then, a, uh, man came and grabbed me. I tried to hold on to the kid - I tried so hard, Jaskier… After that, all I dream about is the Trials. It’s not much more pleasant.” You offer him a wavering smile, weak and fake. You were sparing him the details, protecting him from the scene within your head.

“It’s not your fault,” he told you. A tear slipped down your cheek at the certainty in his voice. “You were just a kid, Y/N.”

Your body crumpled in on itself as a sob ripped its way out of your lungs. It sounded strangled and agonizing. “I know,” you choked out. Jaskier did not hesitate this time to wrap his arms around you and pull you close to him in a hug, being mindful of your injuries all the while.

He shushed and whispered and cooed. With every whimper and wail, he only held on tighter.

---

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